You Are My Exception
by kandyblood
Summary: Mycroft comes to my door. Knocks. Knocks? Something's wrong. Not a holiday, I ate last night. Not himself, never asks me for help. Mummy. Launch myself off the bed, run to the door. Open it. The bruises are all I need to see. Rush to Mummy's room. Mycroft doesn't seem to mind. Father's nowhere in sight. Good. Young!Sherlock backstory. 221 style except for the epilogue. Johnlock.
1. Emotions

**In response to this prompt, which I found on AO3: A Young!Sherlock fic. Might even be a kid fic, though a more 'serious' story is preferred - something from Sherlock's past when he still lived at home with Mummy and Mycroft, maybe even his father. Pretty much any kind of backstory.**

**Age 8**

Mycroft comes to my door. Knocks. Knocks? Something's wrong. Not a holiday, I ate last night. Not himself, never asks me for help. Mummy. Launch myself off the bed, run to the door. Open it.

The bruises are all I need to see. Rush to Mummy's room. Mycroft doesn't seem to mind. Father's nowhere in sight.

Good.

I hope he's never in my sight again.

Go to Mummy. She's on the ground, fetal position. Too familiar. Don't touch her; she'll shy away. Speak softly.

"What happened?"

Glances up. Hair falls in front of her face. Deliberate; doesn't want me to see. Brush it aside anyway. Face covered in bruises and cuts. Sharp cheekbones, one of them bleeding freely. Lost more weight, too gaunt, too pale. Eyes wide. Bruise on her forehead, slightly bloody. Not caused by a hand, likely a club or other blunt instrument. Glance around; lamp is lying on the ground. Turn attention back to Mummy. She's regained her composure, is sitting up now. Wipes her eyes calmly; mouth tightens at the edges. Trying not to wince. Other injuries, probably kicked her. Flash of anger.

She sees.

"Don't let your emotions get the best of you, Sherlock. Especially not now." Her voice is strong, doesn't shake.

I nod. I cannot control my father, but I can control my mind.


	2. Assumptions

**Age 10**

Pain. Ear throbs, rings in the silence. Shadow falls over me. I roll to the side, barely avoiding the inevitable next blow. Wince as my hand comes away from my mouth, stained red. Get to my feet, stumble, fall. Scramble away. Frantic. Fight or flight response; epinephrine and cortisol released into bloodstream. World slows down. See his punch before he makes it, duck out of the way and sweep my leg underneath him. Larger body crumples to the ground, like lightning. A slight pause before the thunder.

Turn, run as fast as I can. May not be strong, but can outrun him any day. Legs pump, vision sharper than usual. Ear still ringing, but it's muffled now. Run as far as I can before I have to catch my breath. Breathing is suddenly not boring so much as a hindrance. Lungs burn; pant, try to take in more oxygen. Keep sucking in deep breaths, even after burning in lungs subsides. Feeling a bit light-headed; put head back against the tree I'm resting beside. Adrenaline leaving my system, limbs shaking from sudden drop in blood sugar. He won't follow; not enough energy after going after both Mycroft and I.

"Never underestimate your enemy," growls a voice in my ear before pain blossoms at the base of my skull and everything goes black.


	3. Vulnerability

**Age 12**

Curl up in my chair, let my eyes skim the words on the page rather than reading them. The author's an idiot anyway. Mycroft comes in, looking tired. Sits down in the chair opposite me. Still in his school uniform. Abandon the book; wasn't interesting anyway.

"Bad day?"

"You have no idea." Mycroft rubs his forehead. I stand.

"Would you like some tea?"

He looks surprised; rightly so. I never offer to make tea. I don't think he knows that I know how. Nods.

A few minutes later I set it down next to him. Picks it up, takes a sip; pauses. Thinking about something.

"Sherlock?"

I wait for him to ask his question.

"How do you deal with people who don't understand?"

I know what he means. All the Holmeses do, all the ones worth anything anyway.

"I delete them."

Looks thoughtful, sips his tea. "I just shut them out. Maybe I should try deleting them."

"It works wonderfully."

He smiles; his face looks much younger when he smiles. I find that it makes me happy as well. I like knowing that he is human.

"Thank you." Puts the teacup back on its saucer, rises. I nod. He turns to leave and then turns back.

"Vulnerability is inescapable; the best we can do is shut it off for a while."


	4. Intellect

**Age 13**

Stare at the mail on the table unhappily. Report cards.

Damn.

I've already seen the notes; professors leave their computers unattended shockingly often.

Sherlock has been a very different student this term; he's kept his outbursts to a minimum and has been going easy on the snide comments. However, I would like to see more of his true potential without the usual side effects in the future.

Consider throwing mine out. Too late; Mummy is already here. Opens Mycroft's first, scans it, sets it aside. Mycroft is perfect, as always. Hesitates. Picks up mine. Reads it. Looks surprised; notices me hovering in the drawing room. Motions me over. I sit.

"Sherlock, what does this mean?"

I'm silent. Perhaps she will drop it.

"Have you been slipping?"

No such luck. I don't drop my gaze from her face.

"Sherlock, what's the matter?"

Composure cracks. She notices.

"Are they at it again?"

Discipline finally shatters. I break down. Can never last long against Mummy. Tell her everything; about the words, the hate, the glares and mutters and occasional violence. She hugs me when I am finished. Wonder why and then feel my cheeks.

They're wet.

"Never hide your mind, Sherlock. It's who you are, and anyone who hates you for it is irrelevant."

I nod, drying my face and holding my head high.


	5. Caring

**Age 15**

Mummy sits at the table, knuckles white around her fork. Keeps glancing at Father, who appears not to notice. I bite my tongue; so many deductions I could make, stinging ones that would leave him embarrassed. Embarrassed means furious; something I don't want to risk today. Glance at Mummy and Mycroft; they're still as fine as they were two minutes ago.

Which is to say, not fine at all.

We all tiptoe around the metaphorical elephant in the room; Father has been cheating again. I know from his shirt buttons, usually so meticulously done up. The holes are one button too high. I don't know how Mycroft knows, but he does. Mummy knows because she can just look at him and tell. Everyone's faces are pinched with stress and pain; mine probably is too. Look at Father again. He is unaffected. I feel the familiar bitterness rise up, but I tamp it down. Rule number one; don't let my emotions control me. I am stronger than that.

Father wanders off. Slight bounce in his step; has had a bit to drink. About to go drink more, probably. Wait till he's out of sight before punching the chair. It helps, strangely. Mummy puts her hand on my shoulder; she looks tired and heartsick.

"Caring is not an advantage," are her quiet words.


	6. John

**Age 27**

I need to organize my mind palace; lately I've been slower. Start with newest memories. A disturbing number are John. Sort through them, delete a couple. Make John's room bigger to fit them all. Shift through cases, categorize, delete here and there. Expand wing reserved for cases. Add another for the cold ones. Delete some more of Anderson. Keep the insults. Can't repeat any, that would be graceless and inelegant. Work towards some older ones. Meeting John. Our first case together, and our second. Organize those too. Move further and further back, where the memories become less frequent. Re-file some of Mycroft. Open some windows, clear out the air. Gets a bit stale if I'm not careful. Clear some cobwebs from an early case I worked on with Lestrade. Consider how much of an arse I was. Mental shrug. Roll up metaphorical sleeves. Back to work. Dust, shelve, throw out, tidy, re-evaluate, build a few more rooms. Get all the way back to childhood; I have precious few items here. Dust off some of primary school, some more of Mummy. Smile a bit at those. Reach all the way to the back, and find the box with the five memories that count.

Me.

I could describe myself with these five little experiences; some might say they define who I am.

I say they are who I am.

I run my fingers over them, through them.

_Don't let your emotions get the best of you._

_Never underestimate your enemy._

_Vulnerability is inescapable; the best we can do is shut it off for a while._

_Never hide your mind; anyone who hates you for it is irrelevant._

_Caring is not an advantage._

I consider them for a few minutes, recalling the memories of my father that never quite got deleted. Snap out of it; John's footsteps on the stairs.

He comes inside, shrugs his coat off. Rained at about noon today, stopped before he came home from work. Went out for lunch; unusual. Date. Not a good one, based on expression. Sighs and turns around to face me.

"Thai or- Sherlock, what's wrong? What's happened?"

Confusion. Look around. Papers in relative order. Put the sword with the blood on it in the rubbish bin. Eyeball experiment already complete; results have been recorded and I threw out the leftovers yesterday. Look back at John. He looks concerned. Lips are pursed, eyebrows close together. Walks over to me, touches my cheek. Feels strange where he takes his hand away. Touch it myself. Ah. Tears.

Sigh.

"Nothing's happened. Rearranging my mind palace."

"You sure?"

I am sure. I tell him so. He turns away after a while and orders takeaway. I pay him no more mind; he's still concerned, but less so. I return to my five memories. I wonder why they're not as potent as they used to be. I'd say age, but that would be false. Consider them; open my eyes when John asks me a question.

It clicks.

John is the exception to my rules.

John is the exception to _me._

He asks again, I nod without hearing him. He sighs exasperatedly and continues talking. I can do nothing but stare.

I think I may be in love.

I tell him that after he finishes.

He looks genuinely shocked, eyebrows raising, eyes widening.

"With whom?" Feel a small glow of pride (emotion- exception to rule number one) at his grammar. He's learned well.

"You."

Now he looks suspicious. If he thinks I'm lying or attempting to manipulate them he will be angry. May have to dodge blows. Unlikely, but wise to avoid them all the same. Stronger than he looks. (I never underestimate him- I know him better than he knows himself. Rule number two.)

"Is this for a case, Sherlock? Are there cameras hidden somewhere that I don't know about?" John looks around. Finding myself liking his skeptism. Means he knows me. Finding myself liking that, too. (Rule number three; I like being vulnerable around John. Hypothesis; perhaps have my guard up too often. Investigate later.)

"No. I was reorganizing my memories. I found myself."

"…What? Is this an attempt at crap poetry, Sherlock?"

Snort derisively. "No, don't be daft. I have five memories. From my childhood. I find that I am very much defined by these memories. I use them as rules to govern how I act around and react to other people."

He looks at me for a second and then smiles, soft and small. "You mad, brilliant genius. Finding your own personality while you're categorizing murderers and experiments involving human body parts."

(Rule number four: John likes my mind. He is the polar opposite of irrelevant.)

I get up and walk over to him. He has to tilt his head to look up at me. Interesting; I find that endearing.

"You are the exception to all my rules, John. Everything that defines me has no relevance when I apply them to you."

He looks surprised again. He does that a lot, I realize. I find myself vaguely wishing that I could be surprised more often, just to know how it feels. John smiles. "I think that just means that we're friends, Sherlock. Friends are often exceptions to your views of other people."

Shake my head. He doesn't understand. "Nobody can do that, John. Only you."

I try to form more words, to tell him how I think. He watches my struggle silently and then speaks, gently, quietly.

"I have an idea."

Fix all my attention on him. He smiles again and gently takes my face in his hands, drawing me closer to his height. Spine bends a bit, bringing my face closer to his.

Pressure on my lips. Feel spark run through my blood. Different than adrenaline, different than knowing I'm right. Feel my breath hitch, feel myself press closer to him.

He pulls his lips back. I hear myself make a slight keening noise I've never heard before. John smiles. I want to kiss him again.

He lets his eyes roam all over my face. I grip his biceps hard, staring back at him. For once I don't know what he's looking for.

Apparently he finds it.

"I think it worked."

Feel my mouth twist into a genuine smile. It's an unfamiliar sensation. Nudge forward, try to kiss him again. He laughs; I feel the vibrations through my hands and his. He holds me back. Pout a bit. John touches his forehead to mine, looks into my eyes.

"First you have to promise me something, Sherlock."

Nod. Anything. I would do anything for him. For my John.

"Delete whatever made you cry, okay?"

Happily. The memories of Mycroft's bloodied face, of my father's cruelty are gone.

I keep the five that crumble before John; I need them for everyone else. John smiles and I smile back.

"Gone."

He pulls me in and kisses me again, full of love (will have to investigate why he loves me later). Find my hands on his face, his shoulders, his neck, in his hair.

(Rule number five: caring is the biggest advantage I have, when it comes to John. When it comes to John, I can't help but care anyway. I find that I don't mind in the slightest.)

**This fic was super fun to write, and it only took me a couple hours. I'm surprised how much I enjoyed this style. I love getting inside Sherlock's head. I couldn't help myself when I saw the prompt... How do you think I did? Feedback very much appreciated!**  
**~kandyblood**


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